by Peter Laws
So he waited, head pressed against the window frame. Pretty much fell asleep against it.
The ghost of his mum tugged at his ear, speaking in the days when she had a normal mouth. Church in the morning, boyo, and don’t you forget it! He sighed, rubbed his eyes and found himself sinking back into bed again, and very quickly into sleep.
His first and only dream told him exactly what was snapping the twigs out there tonight. He dreamt of two huge foxes, almost shadows, walking like men on their hind legs. They padded around the cottage and pushed the door quietly open, striding in. Then they slowly climbed the stairs, with their paws sliding up the bannister, noses sniffing at the air, so they might find the room where the human was. The one who had killed mother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
To call it creepy was a masterclass in understatement.
A crowd of six-year-olds was up on the church stage in front of a three hundred-strong congregation. They were pretending to hammer one of their friend’s wrists against a mini wooden cross, as the kid cried out in Aramaic. The Mini-Me Jesus even spat out some red across his lips as he chomped down on a stage-blood capsule. Wren screwed up her face at that part. ‘Well, that’s unnecessary.’
Amelia just said, ‘Cool.’
Then a pipsqueak of a voice cried out from the little Christ, ‘It is finished!’ And he dropped his little head.
Perfectly on cue a bass line started from the band, instantly recognisable as people stood to sing the words on the huge karaoke screen thing. A middle-aged white woman with a South African accent trotted up to the microphone, raising her hands as the kids onstage started to dance. Her t-shirt genuinely said Does My Faith Look Big in This? She started talking about marriage and how beautiful it was between a man and a woman. Then she closed her eyes and prayed against modern society. She mentioned the so called ‘tragedy’ of same sex marriage, twice. Both prayers prompted hearty ‘Amens’ from the crowd. He’d need to unravel that with the kids, later.
Then she started to sing while an undeniably badass bassline started funking up the room. Three hundred people sang along with her. Hips were moving.
‘I know this,’ Wren said, screwing up her face as she tried to place the melody.
He leant over and whispered, ‘’Course you do. It’s “Ain’t Nobody” by Chaka Khan. You know, the famous hymn-writer.’
As the music played he saw Lucy and Amelia looking through the crowd. They were checking out the youth group, who were crammed into the front pews. Of course Ben was there, bobbing his head to the music. Fringe a-flopping: while the younger kids were either clapping or doing over-literal dance moves to each lyric. Some of them were crumbling into fits of giggles, others holding hands in the air with eyes closed in devotion.
Big old Billy was standing at the side of the church. Not singing. Just watching the kids, smiling, and looking smug. Scratching at his goatee, like there were things in it.
He noticed that Lucy had an intrigued little frown on her face as she watched these teenagers. The corner of her mouth moved up in a smile. Maybe if she were on her own, she’d wander down to that group and join in.
And so it begins, Matt thought with a shiver.
When the speaking in tongues kicked in Wren looked like she’d got instant indigestion. Amelia just stuffed her fist in her mouth to stop herself from laughing. The disturbing racket went on for a few minutes then finally died down into a weird, alien murmur.
Church … he thought … is literally another planet.
The worship leader grabbed the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, let me hand you over to our pastor. God’s man for our church and our community. The Reverend Chris Kelly.’ It was like the intro to The Price Is Right.
Applause rippled into a crescendo as Chris emerged through a side door and onto the stage. There was no dog collar this time. Now he wore a white shirt and a skinny black tie, hanging a little loose at the neck as if he was fronting some 40s swing band. It felt like it would only be a matter of minutes before he shot finger pistols at the crowd and said, ‘Ayyyyyyyyyyyyyy! Wha’s happenin’?’
Matt suddenly pictured Chris back at Bible college, playing his guitar in front of a seething, unappreciative crowd of fellow ministers. For the first time he wondered if the reason why people didn’t like him back then was because they were jealous. That like it or not, he had something that they didn’t. A little stardust, a little charisma. Wasn’t that what everybody wanted in their leaders, religious, political or otherwise?
‘I do hope …’ Chris held up his arms and the applause died down, ‘I do hope you’re clapping for him and not for me.’ He pointed one finger up to the white plastic cross hanging over the stage.
Oh, please.
The crowd clapped even harder, painfully loud, like a huge bank of water was gushing in from behind to drown them all.
Chris wandered the stage as he spoke, one hand wrapped around a cordless microphone, cocked close to his lips. His voice seemed to take on an American lilt. ‘It’s great to have you here as we unpack God’s word and we lift him up in prayer and song and thanksgiving, saving souls from hell and the grave.’
Someone whooped at that.
‘Especially this morning, because we’re doing two extra, extra special things.’ Chris nodded to the band and they started playing some background music. It sounded like the wallpaper jazz you hear in coffee shops and waiting rooms. ‘Question!’ he said, as a tenor sax slinked out a backing melody. ‘Does anyone know what a dominical ordinance is?’
The crowd murmured. A few people raised their hands to answer. Chris ignored them.
‘I’ll tell you, shall I? A dominical ordinance refers to any ritual that Jesus himself introduced. Not some church leader, not some pope. Not some committee trying to be …’ he made finger quotes, ‘relevant to the age. But something Jesus himself told us to do. And you know what? Despite what you might think, he didn’t introduce many. There are only two. Do you want to know what they are?’
‘Yes!’ One voice, hundreds-strong.
‘Holy Communion and baptism. Jesus’s greatest hits, I like to call them!’
Laughter from the crowd.
‘And this morning, we’ll be doing both. We’ll take bread and wine and remember Jesus’s death. But then after the service … we’re gonna see some …’ He shot that finger of his to the band. A drum roll started. An actual, prerehearsed drum roll, ‘… we’ll see some resurrections!’
The loud crackle of applause made Amelia cover her ears.
‘We’ll be heading down to the lake for our baptisms. We’ve got eighteen people showing their commitment to the Lord today. Eighteen people who’ve beaten hell! They’ve purged their old selves and watched them drift away and die in the sky. Give us a wave, you lot!’
Suddenly various people from the Purging Party stood up, scattered through the crowd. They held up towels in the air and waved them like flags. Every one of them was dressed in a white flowing shirt. It was supposed to symbolise purity, but frankly they looked more like extras from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Bat-shit crazy people dancing in the rec-room. Matt wondered how many of them had gone through those special ‘sessions’ at the Healing Centre that Isabel had been going through.
Isabel.
Who Matt kept scanning the crowd for, but couldn’t see. Didn’t Chris say she was getting baptised too?
‘Prepare to get wet!’ Chris shouted, and the people cheered and clapped for at least half a minute. ‘But that’s later. This morning’s also important because God’s brought some very special people into our midst. As you know, we’re rebuilding this place into a state-of-the-art house of worship.’
Matt felt Wren’s body stiffen against him.
‘And I’m pleased to say that God’s rustled up a fantastic young architect to help us. Wren Hunter, can you come on up here, so we can pray for you?’
‘Oh, shite,’ she said, just as the crowd turned to see where Chris was looking.
&nb
sp; ‘I know you weren’t expecting this, Wren, but it just came to me,’ Chris said. ‘I’d like to pray that God will help us make the right decision about who to hire here. How about you come up for a second?’ He flicked his eyes to Matt. Spoke a little lower. ‘And bring your family.’
The people in front turned in their seats and started nodding towards the stage, hurrying them up. One of them, a hard-eyed woman wearing inexplicable dungarees said, ‘Go on. He said get up there.’ A sort of do-not-defy-the-master look in her eye. She hurried them with open palms. ‘Mush, mush.’ Her voice was so whiny, it sounded like kittens being strangled.
‘Come on,’ Matt stood up. ‘Let’s just do it.’
Amelia was eager and beaming at everyone. She grabbed Matt’s hand and sprang up. Then as the congregation started to clap and applaud, Wren and Lucy stood up too. He saw Lucy glance across the crowd, head lowered. She smiled politely at the nodding heads.
As they made their way up, the band started to play an impromptu song. The musicians giggled at each other at their apparent ingenuity. It was probably the only architect-sounding song they could think of.
The theme of Bob the Builder filled the room and a hundred guffaws followed. It was strange, the feeling of three hundred pairs of eyes watching him as he went up the steps onto a stage where he didn’t belong. As the crazy music died down, Chris lined them up like action figures facing the crowd. The spotlights felt hot on his forehead. Matt looked out at the smiling faces and realised that when he was a minister he’d never spoken to a crowd anywhere near this big or this responsive. Not ever. He’d done it plenty in lectures, but the people there weren’t looking at him as a demi-God. Or rather, a God-conduit. But these guys were doing just that. You could see it all in those sparkling eyeballs.
He could understand how vicars could get a power buzz from this.
Then Chris waved his hand over each of their heads as he went down the line, like a clapometer in an old game show.
Which one of the Hunter family do you think disappoints God the most? Clap your answers … NOW!
But instead he just ran through their names. ‘This is Wren, Amelia, Lucy and Matt. Matt’s an old, old friend of mine. And Wren’s the very talented architect who may well help build something special here in Hobbs Hill … or should I say High Hopes.’ More applause. ‘Wren, have you got anything you think we should pray for, specifically?’
How irritating it was, Chris putting her on the spot like this. The guy knew full well that she wouldn’t be used to this sort of thing. But as Matt glanced up at her she seemed strangely at ease. Smiling wide. Performing for her employers, he assumed.
Chris pushed the microphone close enough so it pressed against her bottom lip. Matt saw it crush against it as Chris pressed it there. Her flame-red hair blazed under the lights. She ran her hand through it and scooped it back from her face. ‘I guess you should pray that whoever you choose, the renovation will be on time, on budget and safe.’
‘Anything else?’
She shrugged, with a cheeky glint in her eye. ‘How about world peace, Chris?’
He squeezed her arm. ‘Now that’s a prayer.’ He stepped down the line towards Matt, placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed the mic in his direction. He quickly tried to think what he might say. Maybe he could go all buzz-kill and ask them to pray for Nicola Knox and Tabitha Clarke but he needn’t have bothered. Chris didn’t ask him anything. He just hung his head low. ‘Let us pray.’
Every head swung down and the crowd began to murmur.
‘Please, reach out your hands toward this family so that they might feel blessed and touched by the hand of the living God.’
He didn’t like this, being forced into being prayed for. Annoying, presumptive and not a little bit freaky. He’d met an ex-churchgoer who once described unprompted prayer as ‘spiritual rape!’ Which was a bit much. But then if God didn’t actually exist, what difference did it make?
It still came as a shock, though. To feel his heart quickening under his chest, the nervous quiver in his skin as the prayers started buzzing toward him in swarms. From a bunch of odd, but still human people so caught up in strange fantasy. He felt a sudden beautiful urge to write his book like his life depended on it. To write about the manipulative chemistry of our brains where the left hemisphere senses the existence of the right and interprets it as some ‘other’ presence out there. When it was actually, and quite literally, all in the head.
For a moment, he pitied them all. Not the patronising type of pity. This was genuine, heartfelt concern. He thought of Tabitha. Statistically speaking, there’d be a sizeable portion who would be struggling with their own sexual identity. But unlike her, they’d be rejecting that part of themselves because of the evangelical party line. Trying to bury it, as if that were possible. He looked at the teenagers, growing up in a place that made it very clear what was right and wrong. Stats flickered across his brain, of young Christians deciding suicide was preferable to disappointing their religious communities, their families, their God. He thought of old spinster ladies saying they’d ‘been called to singlehood’, when actually they had simply fallen in love with the same sex, and assumed it to be abhorrent. He sighed as he looked at them. Wanted to grab the mike and tell them there were alternatives out there.
But by then the arms had started to rise and outstretched palms opened in the crowd. All eyes closed, deep in devotion.
Except, Matt noticed, one person.
Billy was standing at the side again, leaning against a radiator. His eyes were open in a blank-looking stare. But his lips were moving. Matt always thought kissing without closing your eyes looked sort of wrong. Praying with your eyes open appeared just as demented.
Billy stared hard at Matt and then at Wren and Lucy. And finally at Amelia. His gaze stayed there, lingering on her for longer than seemed right. Then finally Billy closed his eyes again, chewing on his bottom lip like a famished man.
The entire building pulsed with their murmuring.
Churchy types get used to it. Average people don’t.
He listened to hundreds of people whispering at the same time, making a sound that slithered through the room like there were snakes under the chairs.
He looked down the line and saw that the rest of his family had their eyes closed. He was the only one who didn’t, so he just looked down at the carpet.
A little x-mark of yellow insulation tape was under his foot. He saw three more in front of his wife and children. Four marks, the sort that stage managers put in studios so that they know where to put the guests for the best camera angles. This little moment wasn’t off the cuff, despite what Chris just said.
Then Chris began to pray. He moved down the line and placed a hand on Wren’s shoulder first, then on Lucy and finally Amelia.
‘Lord, you are so patient and understanding with us. Please, let this family know your presence. Not in their mind, but in their heart. Their soul. And may they meet you here in Hobbs Hill. May they know your patience with them. And the depth and intensity of your fierce and faithful love for them. May they turn … may they turn to you. In Jesus’s glorious name, Amen.’
Three hundred voices said ‘Amen.’
Chris opened his hand towards the steps, giving them permission to leave the stage. The girls headed down first, then just as Matt went to go Chris leant in and whispered something into his ear, out of range of the microphones: ‘Matt. I forgive you. For interrupting us with Izzy. I forgive you.’
He gave a presumptive, but hard, little squeeze of the shoulder that was supposed to signify closure. And then Chris sprang off toward the lectern and started leafing through the Bible.
Matt stood there for a moment, looking like an idiot. And so he hurried down the stairs and back to the seat, wishing he could be heading straight for the door where he might be able to catch his breath. It felt like Mars in here, the air was so thin. Back in their chairs hands were patting Wren on the shoulder, reassuringly. Like people do on th
e brow of an obedient pet dog.
‘We are so rock stars,’ Amelia said, as they settled back down.
Chris started to read from the New Testament so Matt went to grab a Bible from the back of the seat in front of him, when he felt a silent buzz from the phone in his pocket. He saw the words Sergeant Miller flashing on the screen.
‘Sorry,’ he said to Wren. ‘I have to take this.’
She nodded, unphased by the people who kept looking back, tutting under their breath at the commotion.
‘Hello?’ Matt whispered.
‘Matt, it’s Terry. What are you whispering for?’
‘I’m in church.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No. What do you want?’ Chris was speaking louder now, so Matt pressed a finger into one of his ears. The Bible grew muffled.
‘Look, I had my officers do a wider sweep of the land around Tabitha’s place.’
‘And?’
‘Matt, we found the paintings. I think you need to come and see this.’
‘Now?’
‘Yeah. Well, if that’s—’
‘That’s perfect.’
‘Good. I’d be interested in your thoughts. Come on up to Tabitha’s farmhouse. I’ll send someone to meet you there and bring you down to the woods.’
Matt checked his watch. ‘Give me fifteen minutes.’ He tapped the phone to hang up and slid it back into the pocket of his jeans.
‘What’s wrong?’ Wren said.
‘I have to go.’ Then in a quiet whisper. ‘Local police need me.’
She nodded, but she did it very slowly. ‘Just don’t forget to—’
‘Do you mind?’ A hissing voice from dungarees woman in front of them.
Wren leant closer to him and whispered directly into his ear. ‘Don’t forget to come and pick us up after, or I’ll have to ask Seth. And quite frankly I don’t fancy being with this lot on my own for too long.’